Tanka tanka tanka tank tank, tinky tink tink, tinky tink tink. Ho Ho ho, what a sporting weekend. Sometimes, I don't mind starting the week on the back of such a wholeheartedly sporty couple of days. The weekend was like a jelly-filled doughnut - except this time it was filled with the adrenalin-pumped blood and passion of the Ryder Cup and the frenetic pace of the English Premier League. Okay, admittedly, it wasn't a SuperSaturday as they oh-so originally dub the big weekends on Supersport, but it was good enough for me. A few passion-filled encounters is better than a whole line-up of weak, heartless ties - just like a good, creamy doughnut is better than three shrivelly, old dry ones.
Darren Clarke - whatta man he is. He epitomises the new-money lack of style and class of the working man-cum-rich cliché, but without the arrogance and drivelling self-pitying contradiction these Gatsby's of the 21st Century so often drag behind them like a dead horse.
Standing at the 18th of The K Club, waiting for his mate Colin Mongomerie to finish on Saturday afternoon, cigar in mouth and extra one in hand (whether it was for him or for Monty is not known), Clarke looked like a man in the final stage of bereavement - acceptance - after his wife passed away only six weeks ago after a long-suffering battle with breast cancer.
On the final day, he swatted off American Ryder Cup rookie Zack Johnson and stood back to watch Henrik Stenson finish the formalities as Europe made America kiss their Blarney Stone by a record-equalling 18½ to 9½ set two years ago at Oakland Hills. It was great to watch, as American Captain Tom Lehman, ever the bigger man, stood back and applauded their effort.
Oh and Paul Casey's hole-in-one on the Saturday to win another point for Europe was just another of the numerous highlights this year's Ryder Cup produced. I'm not even American or European and the competition kept me captivated - I can just imagine what it must have felt like for the fans of the nationalities represented...
And if that wasn't enough, the Premier League tie between Chelsea and Fulham was just as hard-fought - with Chelsea finally coming out trumps 2-0 courtesy of Frank Lampard's two-goal resurgence. There's nothing like a local derby - and they don't come more local than that one, with Stamford Bridge about 2 kilometers up the road from Fulham's Craven Cottage - it's a suprise the Blues even took the bus.
Make no mistake, although Chelsea had more talent in their reserve side than Fulham's first team - they didn't dominate the Cottagers - as the form book grew wings and flew out the window. Bones crunched, heads clashed, crowds jeered and chanted, booed and jeered, Michael Brown dived into Petr Cech's head with his boot, players limped or crawled off only to jump right into battle again - it was a massacre - and that, my friends, THAT, is what football is all about. It was fantastic to watch: no-holds-barred pride and pure passion.
Zartz - I can't wait for next weekend.